


The Furred And The Fae

by Random_Nexus



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017 [9]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Established Relationship, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Other, Phoukas, Prompt Fic, Supernatural Elements, Watson's Woes, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 19:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11447277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: Holmes has some belated 'feedback' for Watson regarding that Hound of the Baskervilles story, but there's more to the story than was told.Written For The Prompt: "The prompt for July 19,2016was: Great Minds Think Alike: So many of you provided wonderful prompts along the lines of "AU", it would be criminal not to let you choose from among the myriad visions. Pick one or more of the following and have fun (there were multiple choices). I chose: Creepy, Kooky, Oooky, Spooky: Any version of Holmes and Watson, only with creatures of the night. Is Holmes the creation of Dr FrankenWatson? Are the members of Moriarty's gang all thralls of the infamous vampire mathematician? Let your imagination run wild!"  -Watson's WoesJuly Writing Prompts





	The Furred And The Fae

**Author's Note:**

> I was a bit lost in the conflicting choices when this prompt came out last year, but also so behind, as I've said before, that I didn't get to it. Now, upon giving it another look, and after talking about it with a friend * _waves at Tysolna_ *, an idea sprang into being and I outlined the dialogue before going to bed, fleshing out the 'stage blocking', etcetera today. Hope some of you like it.

John Watson sat at the writing desk in the sitting room, the early evening breeze through the slightly open window fluttering the filmy inner curtains. The same breeze idly lifted the edges of some of the loose papers at the side of Watson’s working area, though there was little danger of the breeze causing much mischief as an irregular chunk of multi-coloured crystal secured the stack well. Muttering under his breath while unconsciously turning his face up a bit to inhale the occasional puffs of outside air, Watson carefully erased a sentence in his workbook before scattering the crumbs from the rubber and rewriting it.

Though he heard the movements of his fellow lodger and friend in the room, the light, quick tread as familiar to Watson’s ears as his own, Watson wasn’t prepared for a book to be suddenly slapped down upon the blotter, right next to his elbow

“What is this nonsense?” demanded Holmes with the crisp consonants and hissed sibilants of peevishness. Holmes’ version of it, which Watson knew from over twenty years of experience at that point, came across more as imperious disdain, but inwardly, Watson recognised it for what it was.

Glancing at the book Holmes had used to so abruptly gain his attention, which was a copy of ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’, Watson then looked up at Holmes with an expression of slightly forced cheerful enquiry. “Which part confuses you, old boy? It’s a book. A book I wrote. It’s a book I wrote of which you evidently bought another copy—seeing as how I gave you a free copy when it was first published last month—or is there something else confusing you about the thing?”

Frowning at the book briefly, Holmes made a show of having to think on the matter. “You gave me a copy of this rubbish? Oh, yes, I believe I recall using that one to balance the gammy leg on the tallboy in my bedroom.”

For just a moment, Watson was offended. Holmes had initially disliked his approach to the retelling of his cases, stating the facts should have been the primary substance of the tales, not the peripheral details of the emotions and personal lives of those involved. In particular, Holmes wished to embrace only logic and reason, and thus wanted that to be how he was represented in Watson’s writing. Despite his wishes, however, Holmes had emotions as well as a deft grasp of logic and a genius intellect, and at certain times those unwanted emotions ran away with him just a tad.

In light of what he knew of his friend’s true nature and other current goings on, Watson fell back into his humorous approach, though still allowing a subtle bite to his tone. “Ah, now you have given me a major clue. Rubbish, you say? Using it to prop up furniture, are you? Now I see what you really think of my writing.” A thought occurred to Watson, sparked by the tiny lift of Holmes’ chin, not quite a toss of his head, but near enough for such a man as he was. Watson tilted his own head and his tone was a little knowing as he pressed, “Or is it just this story, in particular, that has ruffled your feathers?”

Giving Watson a narrow-eyed look for a long moment, Holmes eventually relented. “Well, I’m hardly in it at all, really, and you spend most of it bumbling about missing all the good clues.” He gestured at Watson briefly with an upturned palm. “Why did you insist on portraying yourself as an idiot and me as a cad?”

It gave Watson a turn, then, to realise Holmes wasn’t solely feeling a lack of the spotlight in Watson’s novel, but that he was displeased with how Watson had portrayed himself, as well. Pursing his lips, Watson looked thoughtful. “Cad? That’s rather strong. Perhaps… it’s more that you’re sometimes a bit thoughtless?”

“Thoughtless?” Holmes repeated, scowling in obvious disagreement.

“Yes, Holmes, thoughtless.” Watson sighed and let his true irritation show more plainly. “What else would you call someone who took it into his head to go out on the moors to investigate a crime _two days before a full moon?_ ” As he spoke, he sat up straight and held Holmes’ gaze in stern exasperation. “Especially when that someone is subject to turning rather hairy and toothy for the three days of the full moon’s span—the first night of which started _on the eve_ of that _someone’s_ arrival. Hm?”

As Watson spoke, Holmes’ eyes widened a little, his pale cheeks blossoming into hints of pink, and his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. His mouth pulled into a line, lips pressed together firmly.

When the man didn’t say anything straight away, Watson leaned subtly toward Holmes and went on, “And, even more especially, what else might one call it when that _someone_ is quite thoroughly aware that, in those three days, he might well have ravaged the local livestock, or even the populace, because his faculties would have been reduced to that of an overly clever and very blood-thirsty _wolf_. Tell me, O Great Detective, what else could you possibly call that, if not _thoughtless_ , at the very least?”

Holmes started to look out the window, his posture having slipped from proud into something closer to shame, but his eyes then focussed upon the book atop the desk and Watson’s hand, which had come to rest upon it as he’d spoken with barely leashed vehemence. Lower lip just the tiniest bit prominent, Holmes muttered, “Very well, I lost track of the days during the Fitzhugh case.”

“Lost track?” Watson parroted back, leaning further and angling his head to better catch Holmes’ eye. “After ten-odd years with this condition, as I was given to understand when we met, you… _lost track?_ ”

“Fine, then!” Holmes burst out, chin high again and fire sparking in his grey eyes. “It _was_ thoughtless,” he confessed dismissively, and then pointed at Watson as he went on to add, “but you might have at least fabricated something where I’m actually _present_ for most of the story!”

With a huff of frustration, Watson shot back, “I made it clear that you’d been there all along, if you’d actually _read_ it instead of skimming. And yes, I made myself the dunce for you… yet again.” He waved one impatient hand at Holmes, saying, “I should have written you out entirely and made myself the hero, had I known you would react this way.”

Holmes made a scoffing sound, rolling his eyes.

“Here now, you,” Watson challenged, jabbing a finger of his own at Holmes, voice lowering substantially. “I will have you know that changing into a great black hound when all the neighbourhood is after a phantom _great black hound_ , just so I can chase about after your furry arse all over the moors, making sure you didn’t kill anyone—or get yourself killed—was not at all my idea of a bloody holiday.” Not giving Holmes a chance to reply, Watson’s finger connected lightly with the man’s sternum as he aired further grievances. “Have you forgotten that I snuck you bloody chickens and geese—literally, I might add—as well as a sheep on the worst night of it. Do you have any idea how much trouble glamouring a shepherd, his sheep-dog, _and_ a sheep can be? I had to change from the hound to the human and back again over, and over, and over again!”

Catching Watson’s finger before he could poke it into Holmes’ waistcoat once more, Holmes’ tone held a hint of a snarl. “I never asked you to—”

“Don’t you even start that bollocks with me, Sherlock Scott Holmes!” Watson snarled back, a growl underscoring his voice that no human throat could have managed. “We have a pact, you silly shifter! Yes, ‘silly’ in spite of your genius.” He pressed in Holmes’ grip, pushing the man’s own wrist tighter and tighter into his own torso. “You found me wounded and helpless in that sodding Welsh cave, but instead of finishing me off, you hid me from that pack of religious zealots and dug out those blessed iron bullets. You fetched me what I needed to heal my wounds, going so far as to travel to the next town to avoid suspicion. Have you forgotten that it was _your_ idea that I might recompense you by keeping you out of trouble during the full moon span, that I might guard your back on dangerous cases and keep you company when no other human could be trusted? Well, I haven’t forgotten, my friend. There has been no _asking_ for going on twenty-some years now, nor has there been need of it. You save me and I save you, no questions asked; that’s how we work!”

Holmes’ face had lost all pretense of anger or irritation, his peevishness gone in the face of Watson’s calling up of their history, the origin of their friendship, and facing him with his own folly. He took in a deep breath and sighed it out with a brief, remorseful expression that shifted to one of diffidence. “I _did_ try to recompense you for your trouble with the Baskervilles and that ridiculous hound nonsense.” He added a tad reluctantly, “And with my… thoughtlessness. I took you to my tailor’s and had you fitted for a new suit, as well as mail-ordering that typing machine—even having them fashion wooden keys instead of steel.”

Watson sighed more softly, releasing the pressure against Holmes’ body and hooking his still-caught finger within Holmes’ grasp, using it to pull the other man’s hand toward himself, instead. His tone grew quieter, losing its inhuman growl. “I do remember, of course.” He waggled Holmes’ hand a little, letting go of his frustration and anger a bit more. “I actually like the noisy thing and Doyle likes being able to better read my manuscripts.” Making a contemplative sound, he cracked a hint of a smile. “And it _is_ a nice suit, I’ll give you that.”

“It is.” Holmes had already relaxed the muscles of his arm, allowing Watson to toy with their joined hands, complicit with the implied truce that it represented. “You look quite handsome in it.”

“Flattery, Holmes?” Watson murmured.

“No. Fact, Watson.” Holmes’ voice had lowered in kind. “You do look very well in that suit. It happens to be one of my favourites on you.”

“Look at you,” teased Watson, knowing he was one of perhaps two people living who was allowed to see this softer, contrite Holmes. Who witnessed his well-guarded heart as well as his remarkable brilliance. He smiled a little, not quite letting Holmes turn the tide of their… discussion. “I think I should make you write one of the stories for the strand. That would teach you.”

Making a ‘tsk’ sound between his teeth, Holmes said, “I could do it.”

With too-agreeable blandness, Watson nodded, squirming more fingers into Holmes’ grasp. “Of course you could.”

Suspicious, but still speaking lightly, probably aware it was all meant in fun, Holmes turned a querulous expression on Watson. “What? You don’t think I could?”

“I think you could give it a try.” Pushing the tiniest bit with the glint of mischief in his eyes and the smooth tone of his voice, Watson kept the slow swing of their hands going, back and forth. “I don’t know if you’ve any real idea how to write anything other than monographs on bees and poisons, but you definitely could try to put together a proper story.”

“Proper story?” Holmes tightened his grip slightly, having moved a bit closer, his hip nearly against the side of Watson’s chair back. “I shall do it, John Hamish Watson, don’t you think I won’t.” His tone was half serious again, but balanced with the softer edge of their teasing truce.

“Do,” encouraged Watson smilingly. “Then I shall send it along to Doyle and we’ll see what _he_ says.”

“Fine, then I shall,” Holmes shot back, nodding in satisfaction.

“Fine.” Watson pulled their hands close enough to press a light kiss to Holmes’ first knuckle, sealing their agreement and putting paid to their previous _dis_ agreement.

Taking it for what it was, Holmes smiled, too, and released his grip to brush that hand up Watson’s arm, glancing the backs of several fingers along Watson’s cheek before stepping away to take up his violin. He fidgeted with the pegs, tuning it and tuning it again as he paced, but never settling to play.

“Before you get too wrapped up in starting your new career as an author of crime dramas,” Watson drawled when it was clear Holmes was too restless to focus. Holmes looked up and Watson put on an amicable expression. “What would you say to supper out?”

Holmes was immediately engaged. “I say, that actually sounds good. I’m rather hungry, after all.”

“Of course you are,” Watson said with a hint of amusement, rising from his seat. “I’ll go change into something more appropriate.” He wore one of his shabbier suits, the worn jacket hung across his armchair and tie never donned that morning.

Before he got three steps, Holmes asked, “What do you mean ‘of course’?” He watched Watson with a return of his earlier suspicion.

Rolling his eyes, knowing by now that it wasn’t _entirely_ Holmes’ fault, no matter how frustrating it could sometimes be, Watson tapped the wall calendar next to the desk—one with abbreviated almanac entries, like the tides and the phases of the moon. “Full moon in four days.”

“Oh, that,” Holmes dismissed, waving his bow as if swatting a lazy fly. “Of course I knew _that_. Silly phouka.”

Smirking, both at the casual denial that he’d forgotten—again—and at the teasing echo of his own words from earlier, Watson took another step toward the doorway leading to the short flight of stairs up to his bedroom. “I’m sure you did. Best change, too, since you can’t exactly dine at Simpson’s-on-the-Strand in your dressing gown and those tattered slippers.”

“Simpson’s?” Holmes set aside his violin and bow to move slowly toward Watson.

“Indeed. Your treat, of course. Unless you’d rather I—” Watson spread his hand upon his own chest, playing up an utterly false innocent façade.

“No, no,” Holmes interrupted right on cue. “I know very well you spent the last of your ready money on that box of Belgian chocolates we enjoyed last week. I also remember having to sneak in and steal those bloody oak leaves out of the tobacconist’s till the last time you were skint.” He pointed at Watson accusingly, but his tone was more fond than anything else. “So, no. You keep your fickle fae fingers out of it. My treat, as you said.”

Chuckling, Watson took a step closer. “You enjoyed the practice, my fuzzy friend, and you know it.”

“Fuzzy!” Holmes snorted, but didn’t deny it. “Go change!”

“Meet here in the sitting room in half an hour?”

“Right,” Holmes agreed, starting to turn away and head towards the door to his own bedroom.

“Oi!” Watson called, putting his fists on his hips.

Holmes turned back, brows high in question. “What?”

Watson huffed out a breath and couldn’t quite stop the smirky hint of a smile lurking beneath his moustache. “No kiss?” Since they’d become lovers, beyond their original friendship, they tended to make up after most arguments with a kiss, at the very least. Watson’s small kiss to Holmes’ knuckles was meant in that vein, but not the full article.

“No k—” Holmes broke off and strode the small distance between them to buss Watson firmly on the lips before shoving him gently toward the other doorway. “There, that’s good enough for now, greedy phouka. Now get on with you. I’m starving!”

Watson winked unrepentantly at the implied promise of more later that night, sniggering himself into a low chuckle as he went on out of the sitting room and up the stairs to change.

**Author's Note:**

> [12/02/17 - Small edits to timeline, no other changes made.]


End file.
